


Seven Pounds, Eight Ounces

by 00QEros (Dassandre)



Series: What the Water Can Carry [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bondlock, Challenge Response, Established Relationship, M/M, Parent Bondlock, Q is a Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 20:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11364867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/00QEros
Summary: James reflects on the significance of arithmetic.





	Seven Pounds, Eight Ounces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [springbok7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/gifts).



> This is my first submission for the 007 Games 2017. The prompts I have chosen to use are "Sunshine" and "Dance the Night Away." This story is the second part in a series and serves as a sequel (of sorts) to "How Much Love Can the Weight of Water Carry;" it is also a gift for my dear friend, Springbok7, who is feeling a bit under the weather today. I love you, dearie!
> 
> I do hope that you all enjoy it. Please let me know what you think. Comments are love!
> 
>  
> 
> This story has not been beta-checked. All mistakes are my own.

 

 

One plus one equals two.

He was an agent: designated by those he had killed, and why he had killed them.  

Double-O Seven.  

He was a man: characterised by the women he had loved, lost, and been betrayed by.  

James Bond.

He was a husband: fulfilled and contented by the love of a man he still wasn’t sure he deserved.  

Q.

James had been one.  Alone.  

Then came Q.  

One had become two.  Together.

In the two years since they had married -- and truthfully, even before -- James had been certain that his capacity for love had increased exponentially by the mere proximity of that 5’11” fractious boffin with floppy mahogany curls, permanently cold feet, and a warm smile that more than made up for his appalling taste in designer jumpers and rather disturbing propensity to sink like a rock in water of any measurable depth.   

Love personified in only ten and a half stone.

James had been convinced of it.  

He had been wrong.

The softly whimpering newborn that James scooped from her cot had taken no time at all to set his misperceptions to rights.   

“Hush, love, Da’s here.”  James hefted her slight weight to his shoulder and ran his hand soothingly down his daughter’s back to her bottom -- expectedly damp -- as he walked to the changing unit.  It was but the work of a few minutes for him to have her stripped of her soiled onesie and nappy, and the cleverness of the minion-designed unit allowed James easy access to the necessary supplies for this _very_ early morning changing.  

Remy was still far better at this than he, but for all that his Quartermaster could pull 48 hour shifts guiding agents through their missions without cracking a yawn, Q had been surprisingly done in by a wee bairn not yet a month old.   “Your papa needs his beauty sleep, Mir, my love.  Might take me a bit longer to do this, but we’ll get there together.”  

In the dim light that shone from the floor lamp next to the rocking chair -- his mother’s; one of the few items that had survived Skyfall’s destruction as James had had it shipped down to London not long after he had left the Royal Navy for MI6; a silly, overly-sentimental whim at the time, but one he was grateful for now -- James saw his own eyes staring back at him from his daughter’s sweet face.  

His hair.  His eyes.  

April’s ears, thank Christ.  

When she had heard that Q and his Double-O (retired) husband were planning on surrogacy for their first child, the minion who had very nearly drowned alongside her Quartermaster shyly approached the couple with an offer so generous that James was still rather stunned by it.  It had taken nearly a year of planning and testing and one failed implantation, but finally …

Well, the _finally_ was here, sucking on her fist, staring up at her _dadaidh_ with a look that seemed to tarry somewhere between fascination and constipation.  James chuckled at the expression, and her look shifted instantly to one of annoyance and offence.  His chuckle became a laugh.

His DNA, but already Q’s personality.

New nappy and nightclothes set to rights, James gently bopped her nose with the tip of his forefinger and scooped her back against his chest, inhaling deeply.  The scent of her -- baby wipes, bepanthen, infant formula -- was more intoxicating to him than that of any exotic liquor or cuisine he had sampled in his decades of travels as an agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  

Though his daughter had snuggled close, the fist she had been gumming damp against the curve of his neck, the tension in her tiny frame said to James that she was far yet from sleep.

“You need your rest, too, love,” he whispered against the shell of her ear.  “It’s off to meet your Great-Great Aunt Lilibet tomorrow.  A big day.  Even your cousin Rosie will be there, and you’ll want plenty of energy to play with her, George, and Lottie.”  Neither James nor Q were certain how John managed to talk Sherlock into bringing their daughter out to Windsor, but Q’s mum seemed to think that bribery involving a whole human cadaver might be involved.  James wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised.  He had a great deal of admiration for John Watson.  While James’ own Holmes could be quite a challenge at times, he knew that the dramatic and cantankerous consulting detective could be even more so, but John’s obvious love for Sherlock, and Sherlock’s for John, made it clear how those challenges were likely overcome.

Though body parts apparently helped, too.    

His daughter shifted in his grasp, and James could sense the cry that was forthcoming.  The increased rigidity of her body suggesting that this time it would likely wake Q, and that simply would not do.

There really was only one thing for it.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  You make me happy, when skies are grey.  You’ll never know dear, how much I love you.  Please don’t take my sunshine away.”  

He sang the words softly to Miranda Ceit; his baritone vibrated out of his chest and through to hers, soothing and loving as he swayed with his daughter pressed closely.

“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping.  I dreamt I held you in my arms.  But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, so I hung my head down and cried.”

As he sang through that verse and into the refrain, James began to shift his feet -- ever mindful of his dodgy leg -- and what had started as a gentle sway grew to a smooth dance across the floorboards of the nursery.

““You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  You make me happy, when skies are grey.  You’ll never know dear …”

James continued to sing to his daughter in the night, their dance unabated even when it became clear that Mir had fallen asleep in his arms.  Yes, tomorrow was a big day, but even now, two years out of the field, James still knew how to go without sleep. For this, for _her_ , he would willingly endure far, far more than that.

Yes, one plus one equals two.

Except when it doesn’t.

Except when it equals three.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope that I did the prompts and the original story justice with this sequel. Please let me know if you liked it.
> 
> Comments make my world go 'round!


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